The True Author of the Plays
Formerly Attributed to Mister William Shakespeare Revealed to the World for the First Time by Miss Delia Bacon
from
The Best American Short Plays 2008–2009
character
DELIA, a young American woman
time
The mid-nineteenth century. Evening.
place
An auditorium in the American Consulate in Liverpool, England
[At rise, DELIA stands center stage at a podium. To her left is an easel with a placard that reads, “THE TRUE AUTHOR REVEALED.” To her right is an empty chair. She is bursting with energy.]
DELIA Welcome. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I am truly honored that you have come to the American Consulate tonight. My name is Miss Delia Bacon. I’m from Connecticut; that’s in America. Yes. I suppose you all know that, don’t you?
[Stops. Giggles. Returns to her talk.]
Yes. Ever since I arrived in Great Britain, I have had one goal in my pursuits. To uncover the truth. And now, I am pleased to announce, that for the first time in history, I am able to reveal to the world the true author of the dramatical poems heretofore spuriously and falsely attributed to one Mister William Shakespeare. By the end of the evening, ladies and gentlemen, you shall know that name, that blessed name, of the true genius greater than all other authors. Now, before I begin, I must acknowledge the support of the man without whom I could not be here today. He has encouraged me in all my endeavors, and has even provided this lovely hall in the consulate tonight. He promised to be here this evening, so . . . please allow me to thank my fellow countryman, famed writer and American consul to Liverpool—Nathaniel Hawthorne! Will you come up here, please, Mr. Hawthorne?
[Motions to chair.]
Here’s the chair, just like we agreed. He’s right there in back. I don’t mean—to pressure you. You could just wave or something. If you prefer. Will you wave to us, please, Mr. Hawthorne? Wave?
[Waves. No response.]
Mr. Hawthorne’s a bit shy tonight. Pay him no mind, ladies and gentlemen. No mind at all. Though if you would like to come up . . .
[Stops. Smiles. Waits for approval.]
Oh. I see. Mr. Hawthorne is a bit skeptical about my ideas, but perhaps we’ll convince him by the end of the evening. After all, your chair is waiting. . . . Well, I shan’t keep you all in suspense any longer. I did have some notes here. Mr. Hawthorne advised me not to try to speak without notes. It’s very important to be prepared, you see. That’s what he told me. I just have to get these papers in order and then . . . well . . . Without adequate preparation, a speech is . . . I’ll be right with you, ladies and gentlemen. Just as soon as . . . they were right here and WHERE ARE THE GODDAMNED—
[Stops. Glances up at the audience. Smiles. Giggles.]
Yes. Here they are. No, don’t go! No! Please? Yes. Thank you. Sit down. I do apologize. I’m not a—I don’t know what came over me. Well. Now we can begin.
[Glances down at the notes. Looks up at the audience.]
“Reason.”
[Smiles. Looks down at notes.]
“Reason is the sole force which must motivate us in the quest for truth.”
[Glances up. Looks for approval. Uncertain. Turns back to her note.]
“If we are to tear away from our attachment to the past, we must be willing to sacrifice everything, and head forward towards all the abundance that the future has to offer.”
[Beams.]
We live in an age of progress, ladies and gentlemen, as I am sure our good friend Mr. Hawthorne would agree! As a matter of fact, if he would just . . .
[Pats the back of the chair.]
Well . . . I’m not as good as he is at articulating these things, but I’ll do my best. You see, the Elizabethan Age began a trend towards scientific investigation, and we must bring that same investigation to the greatest texts of that age. Only then can mankind, and yes, womankind too, be freed from the shackles of convention, which prevent us from . . .
[Quickly.]
This is what I’ve been trying to get my brother Leonard to understand all these years. Of course he would just call me a— He could never appreciate it. Rationality. Why, if that scoundrel friend of his had been acting rationally, he never would have proposed and then— But I digress.
[Smiles. Back to business.]
Now if we are to determine the true author of—he did propose to me by the way—the true author of . . . these most magnificent works . . . it follows that we must first reject the spurious claims of that man from Stratford. Yes.
[With disgust.]
William Shakespeare.
[Shakes off the name.]
There are many reasons for doubting the authorship of Shakespeare, but three in main:
[Checks notes.]
“One. William Shakespeare was the poor son of a common butcher.”
[Looks up. Panics. Smiles.]
Oh, come now, Mr. Hawthorne. I know what you’re going to say. John Shakespeare was not a butcher per se, but a glover. But it’s not much of a debate with you sitting out there in the audience now, is it? Why don’t you . . . ?
[Looks back at her notes.]
“Two. By all accounts, William Shakespeare led a sparse and altogether uninteresting life.”
[Turns back to audience.]
An author of such distinction? Why was he not noticed?
[Smiles.]
Genius can only be ignored for so long, ladies and gentlemen. I myself have suffered from neglect. Been called names. Laughed at even! But it can only go so far. The human spirit is resilient, yes, but. . . . Sooner or later, one is noticed.
[Motions to the chair.]
Are you sure you wouldn’t . . . ?
[Waits. Smiles. Giggles.]
“Three.” Perhaps the most convincing. “In light of recent evidence stressing the importance of heredity, it seems impossible that a man of such genius could be the only individual of note in his family.” Why are there no other geniuses with the surname Shakespeare? More on this later.
[Smiles.]
If our author was not a man of the theater, what was he? I suspect . . . he was not much different from you, Mr. Hawthorne! A man of both literary distinction and governmental service. A man of connection to individuals of import. A man, perhaps, with a dissatisfied marriage, waiting to share his affection with—
[Pause. Smiles. Sudden panic.]
Or perhaps . . . this is reading slightly too much into the situation.
[Smiles.]
Ah, but, Mr. Hawthorne, do you not remember that noble sentiment from Hamlet? “Doubt thou the stars are fire. . . . Doubt that the sun doth move. . . . Doubt truth to be a liar . . . . BUT NEVER DOUBT I LOVE!”
[Smiles. Recovers.]
Now what at first appears to be a simple love poem, at second look, aha! “Doubt thou the stars are fire? Doubt that the sun doth move?” Is this not a challenge to the very foundations of a Ptolemaic universe? Why, if the plays were in Italian, we would have to concede they were written by Galileo!
[Laughs hysterically. Pauses. Very quickly.]
Yes. Now it so happens that at that time, a new philosophy was taking root. The mind that created Hamlet and Julius Caesar and Coriolanus also perceived this new mode of thought. The new philosophy, which we have adopted as a practical philosophy, not merely in that grave department of learning in which it comes to us as philosophy, but in that not less important department in which it comes to us in the disguise of amusement, this Elizabethan philosophy is, in these two forms of it, not two philosophies, not two new and wondrous philosophies, but one—one and the same!
[Stops. Catches breath.]
Well, what of this conclusion? Will it be attacked? Certainly. Just as Galileo was blinded by the forces of the Inquisition, I doubt not that a modern Inquisition is forming as we speak. You know what they called Galileo, don’t you? They said he was—
[Calms herself.]
I, however, cannot be silenced. And I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, any evidence they may produce in opposition to my conclusions will not be of the least value. As for the internal evidence of the plays themselves, it is far too extensive for me to recount it here. I am at work, however, on a manuscript, which I hope, Mr. Hawthorne, you will condescend to read. Let it suffice for now to state that the author of the plays was none other than the discoverer of inductive reasoning himself, Sir Francis Bacon.
[Smiles.]
Yes, Mr. Hawthorne, Sir Francis Bacon. And yes, an ancestor of mine. You see now, I am not a freak. I come from a long line of great minds. Like yours. Perhaps you thought before that I wasn’t worthy, but do you see now? So if you wish to . . .
[Motions to the chair. Long silence. Nothing happens. Sudden panic.]
But . . . could such a distinguished person, Sir Francis Bacon, allow his works to be performed upon the public stage? Upon the stage? Well, he wouldn’t be onstage himself, ladies and gentlemen. Not sitting up there himself. But he would still support his works. What could a prestigious individual like Mr. Hawth—Bacon, have to fear?
[Passionately.]
Francis Bacon fought for a world based solely upon rational fact. Throw out Aristotle! Throw out Ptolemy! Throw out the Bible! Yes, Mr. Hawthorne, you mustn’t be shocked.
[Smiles.]
Nothing should stop us. If we reject convention, if we put aside the doubts and hesitations that prevent us from seizing what we really want, we can create a whole new society. If the world were to see, if you were to stand up here with me and proclaim that what we have—
[Quickly.]
We can defy convention, Mr. Hawthorne. Traditions do not matter to us; marriage doesn’t matter; forget about that New England cow of yours; I’ll wear your scarlet letter! I may have gone too far last night, but you belong with me, not her! You were supposed to be here, Mr. Hawthorne! You promised! You said you’d be—OH DEAR GOD!
[She screams and knocks over the lectern. Papers fly everywhere. She flings her arms in a mad rage and continues to shriek through tears. She stops. Opens her eyes. Looks out at the audience.]
Oh. Oh dear. Well. I must say, I do . . . I do apologize. Where was I?
[Tries to gather up the papers and sort through them.]
No, please don’t go yet. I still haven’t gotten to the best part. You see, the plays are inscribed with a secret code. If you look at the sequence of words the second part of Henry the Fourth and count off using the square root of . . . It all makes perfect sense. Mr. Hawthorne? You are still out there, aren’t you? You are . . . ?
[Stares into the void.]
I know . . . you couldn’t sit up here with me. I understand that now. But . . . that was you I saw in the back. . . . It was . . . right? Mr. Hawthorne. Hello? Are you . . . ? Mr. Hawthorne . . . ?
[The lights slowly fade to blackout.]